The Doll Factory

By Vishakha Choudhary

Of skin so fair,

May it reflect the moon,

Her youth a snare,

A woman too soon.

Cut those inches,

Meat flatters the butcher,

Too often she flinches,

Modest is the culture.

A comely mouth,

To sing and entertain,

Words too uncouth,

Silence be certain.

Eyes that flutter,

At times opportune,

A gilded shell of butter,

The soul, a lost tune.

Strength is for the wolves,

The ravens are simply pretty,

Hornless are the bulls,

The bards sigh in pity.

By Vishakha Choudhary